Tuesday, December 30, 2008

WW2 | 11. Dutch Housewife Fights Nazis, 1940-45

This is a first-person account of her contribution to the Resistance by a housewife in Holland in WWII, translated by my mother Hilda van Stockum. I have transcribed, edited and annotated the letter, originally in Dutch, sent to my mother at the end of World War II by H. van Rijnbach.

Mrs. van Rijnbach was employed in the home of Hilda de Booy during the five-year occupation of Holland by the Nazis. When Holland is invaded, Mrs. van Rijnbach's first thought is very Dutch - to clean the house.
The day the Germans invaded our country, May 10, 1940, our house was topsy-turvy, as I'd just started spring cleaning. So the first thing I did, while everyone else kept running around, was to put back the furniture and dust the carpet. I felt it was the best way to keep calm and the children should at least have an orderly house whatever else happened.
Four days after the invasion, the Germans still hadn’t taken the Netherlands. They were surprised by the extent of the fight by the poorly equipped Dutch army. The Germans demanded the immediate surrender of Rotterdam. When negotiations seemed to be moving slowly, German bombers destroyed much of the city. The German military then threatened to bomb Utrecht. On May 15 the Dutch army gave up everywhere but Zeeland, which held out for two more days until the bombing of Middelburg.
Two weeks after our surrender - i.e., May 29 - we had just sat down to dinner when a big police wagon stopped before our house. A policeman came out with a plainclothes inspector.

"What do you want?" my husband asked.

"You keep a list of people who regularly contribute to Jewish charities. We have come to fetch it. If you do not hand it over, others will come who will know how to get it."

What could we do? My husband fetched it and gave it to them. The two men departed. My husband and I looked at each other. Slowly it dawned on us that we had done a dreadful thing. We had been taken unawares, fools that we were, and now they had all those Jewish addresses.

We realized suddenly what they were after. They are Jew-haters. My husband was shaken.

"I should never have given it," he kept muttering. From that moment we resolved to be more careful and never trust the Germans.
The van Rijnbachs made contact with the Underground. They agreed to distribute an illegal newspaper, Free Netherlands.
For a moment my husband hesitated. It was very dangerous work. He would have to distribute 3,000-4,000 copies of the Orange Paper in Amsterdam. Distribution of such papers was one of the most dangerous underground jobs. My husband is a responsible person and knew the risks involved for himself and for his family. But here was longed-for work, action against a hated enemy. 
(Holland had enough food stored to see her through a blockade of five years and the Nazis managed to transport it all to Germany in six months. It was infuriating to see them walk along the street carrying boxes full of cake and candy and eating sausages out of their fists while we would watch on empty stomachs.)

Now our real work began. First we had to find trustworthy helpers. Then we had to divide the work in such a way that no one could guess where the paper came from. How can I describe the suspense when we delivered the papers for the first time? We realized we could not last long under constant strain, so we found prayer essential for this work. 
Slowly our activities grew. The society of Underground officers collected money to send poor children to camps in the country and I had to find out if the parents were "safe". Twice I also went with the children as a counselor.  My own family's needs prevented me from doing this more often. 
We became more immersed in illegal work. The first men began to dive under, refusing to work for Germany. Where could they hide? We had to find addresses of trustworthy farmers and manufacturers who could provide work and shelter for the boys. This meant I had to travel around, because my husband could not leave in the daytime. I always started the conversation about food and gradually tried to find out if the person was safe, which was not easy, as trust had to come from both sides. Local clergy helped a lot here.
As a mother, Mrs. van Rijnbach had special feelings for the young volunteers.
When I had found a hiding-place for a boy, it sometimes happened that he didn't dare to go there alone. I had to bring him. After a while, my husband would not allow that – he said if the boys had enough pluck to dive under, they should be brave enough to go alone. 
But a mother feels differently, she still sees the "child" – the boys were often barely 18. Our own children were still too young so we did not experience the terrors the parents of those boys had to suffer.
Getting food for the Underdivers required ration tickets.
The next difficulty was to feed the boys, and the sabotage group of K.P. (Knuckle Gang) found the solution. They organized raids on distribution centers to get the necessary papers and ration tickets. Those were then distributed by another organization. We owe a great debt of gratitude to those heroic men who fed so many and often paid with their blood.
The next story shows the peculiar position the Dutch police were in vis-a-vis their own populaton.
One evening, April 1943, the Orange Paper had been delivered at our house. We had to distribute it before curfew. We had just brought away to another address a young underdiver who had been staying with us. We were packing the papers which were piled on the table and I saw there was not enough wrapping paper. I went next door to fetch some, leaving the front door ajar as it would not be noticed in the dark. I was back in two minutes but I saw a car looming in the dusk. I had not put my feet in the hall when my husband met me...

"The police are here..."

Upon entering the room I saw the situation. Two inspectors in plain clothes and one policeman in uniform. My husband leant against the dresser pale as death, sweat trickling from his forehead. The voice of the inspector near the table brought me back to reality.

"What's this here?" he thundered, pointing at the papers.

"Are you crazy, you two, with all your children? Where is your underdiver?”

Now we understood why we had received this visit and why they were so surprised to find the papers. Luckily we could tell them truthfully that we had no underdiver. They searched the whole house while the policeman in uniform stayed with us. When the others came back they exchanged glances. The spokesman of the two said:

"You are lucky, usually we have a German with us but he is ill tonight." For a tense moment he hesitated.

"Do you realize this means life or death for us too?"

My husband whispered: "Spare us, for the sake of our children."

Ten more fateful minutes followed. They went into the hall and we had to stay in the room. We knew if they decided to arrest us we would not have long to live. Would they trust one another? Would they risk being betrayed themselves? They came back into the room.

"Burn everything immediately. We'll make our report on the underdiver alone. They may send someone to check up on us. Do as we've told you."

We stammered our thanks and they left. My husband was sick with the shock and went to bed. One of the children had heard everything and was very frightened. I stayed to do the work. But I thought it was a pity to burn all those papers so I brought most of them to my friends Mrs. H. and Mrs. J., both neighbors. I had to climb the back fence to do this. The rest I burned and even that took me into hiding for two weeks until we were sure the policeman had kept their word.
Mrs. van Rijnbach gives many personal stories from people she sheltered:
Then "Dick" came to stay with us. He had shot five German policemen and two other  Nazis while on sentry duty for our organization. When he arrived at our house he was all to pieces, couldn't sleep or eat for two days. My husband had to convince him that he had done nothing more than his duty, saving the lives of 25 other lads. Dick felt it was terrible to have shot seven men in cold blood. He said it was quite different when he was a soldier defending the bridge before Rotterdam. He and his father stayed with us for two weeks and then we found a safer place for them. Later we learned that he had escaped through France and had joined the Princess Irene Brigade. It was just as well for there was a reward of 10,000 gulden on his head here. Because of what he had done there were severe reprisals in his village and all men there had to go into hiding. We sometimes had 12 in our small house but everything was possible then.
Traveling was difficult.
The contact with K.P. meant much traveling. Once I had to fetch a suitcase full of uniforms and weapons from the Hague. At the station in Amsterdam, passengers were being searched for smuggled food. An inspector collared me.

"What's in the suitcase?"

"Bacon, nothing but scrumptious bacon," I said, patting him on the shoulder.

"Get along with ye," he grinned, which I also did, as quickly as I dared. Brr... that was a narrow escape! I was to deliver the suitcase at a certain address the next morning but after my experience at the station I decided I would get rid of it that very evening. It was lucky I did for the next morning that place was raided and I would have walked into a nice little trap.
Another dangerous trip to her to Zwolle.
Before we could get out at our destination the train was barricaded by Grune Polizei and we couldn't slip through their clutches. There I was with 1,000 illegal newspapers and also illegal ration books and such like. The papers I had chucked far under the bench but the rest was in my pocketbook. In my desperation I saw only one way out, though it seemed silly. I pretended to be asleep. Four policemen entered our compartment. All suitcases were opened. One German asked pointing at me:

"Hat das fraulein keine tasche?" (Has that lady no luggage?)

The others shook their heads. Then the policemen left.

One of my fellow passengers looked at me and said: "Hm, all was certainly not well with you."

So you see, one can experience all sorts of things when travelling.
Some attacks on the German occupiers were unsuccessful and all of the young men involved were captured and killed:
A young student called "Tom" planned a raid at our house. He and four other students were to attack a place on the Stadion street, but when it came to shooting they couldn't do it. All five were arrested and shot. This shocked us very much.

Next came another blow. The raid to liberate 70 prisoners at Weteringschans prison failed through treachery and 17 of our boys were killed. But less than a week later, 57 prisoners awaiting death were liberated from that same prison. The Germans had not expected another attempt so soon and were taken by surprise.
Some attacks were very successful, for example an August 29 raid on the police station at Overtoom in West Amsterdam:
The boys arrived in Amsterdam that morning and Betsy had to find shelter for them. Betsy is a nice young girl who helped us all these years as did also Mrs. H. whose bicycle was worn out in our service. That afternoon someone tipped me off that they knew about the intended raid at the police station and had warned the Gestapo. I was alone and didn't know where to find the boys to warn them. I mounted Mrs. H's faithful bicycle and went through pouring rain to look for them. After four hours I at last found "Jack", the leader. Breathlessly I told him what I heard. To my astonishment he roared with laughter. I got mad – after all the trouble I went to.

"Are you crazy, to risk all those boy's lives?"

He gave me an odd look and said: "Well, if they expect us at 9 o’clock, we'll wait till 11."

There was no use arguing. His mind was made up. Later, I realized it was all part of the plan. Patriotic policemen had lent "Jack" a regular police car and he also got hold of two S.S. uniforms. He and friends dressed up as Gestapo men pretended to have arrested three other K.P. comrades and so they went to the police station at Overtoom.

"Open up," they shouted in German fashion, "We are the Sicherheitsdienst [the  Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS, or SD, the intelligence agency of the SS and the Nazi Party]."
The doors flew open and the bowing and scraping policemen went ahead to show where the cells were. In a twinkling they were disarmed and locked up in their own cells. Then the boys plundered the place, destroying lots of valuable records. They came home triumphant at 3 a.m. Of course everyone was talking about it.

The funniest moment was when the milkman came in just as all the boys were eating around our table. He began to tell them about the raid, full of praise for the unknown heroes. He said he knew it all first-hand because a customer of his lived near the Overtoom. The boys could hardly keep their faces straight. I enjoyed the situation and made the good fellow repeat his story three times which he did with enthusiasm, praising those "grand boys". At last I couldn't control my own glee and I became an idiot, hiccupping and sputtering. Later, after liberation, we told the milkman the reason for our strange behavior.
Eventually, the work for the Dutch Underground was detected.
Soon we were visited by a strange gentleman who wanted us to supply him with illegal documents. Betsy was with me that day. I told him he was at the wrong address and that he was making a mistake but he persisted and even hinted at the raids at distribution centers. When he had gone Betsy and I looked at each other.

"John sick, come."

That was the agreed signal. I was relieved and began to get ready myself. I washed everything that evening, though I hated the idea of leaving as so many people were robbing empty houses. At 5 a.m. there was a ring at the door. My heart went racing. So I was too late!

But it was only a letter which had been thrust under the door.

"Fly with all the children, Grune Polizei on your trail, your connection with raids known, police."

I knew enough. For one moment I still hesitated and considered sending only the children away but commonsense told me it would probably cost me my life. I was pregnant and because of the scare I got a miscarriage. It was terrible. Sweat poured down my cheeks... now this too and I had to clean up as well as I could. I still don't understand how I got everything done.

Within a few hours we had fled, leaving no evidence behind, not even snapshots. Mrs H. and Mrs. J. and Betsy helped wonderfully, I could not have managed without them. They got the children away for me. Betsy brought me and the baby to Overveen. It is lovely to have good friends, I realized that properly then. I shall always be grateful to them. I was so very, very tired and once in the train I could give way to it, but I was full of hope that all would be well yet.
The winter before the liberation of Holland, 1944-45, the Dutch suffered a terrible famine as the Nazis took everything to feed their own soldiers.
The food situation became so bad that we finally had to send the children to the country with an illegal group as we could not feed them at home any more. I'll spare you the account of the few crumbs of food on which we had to exist until Sweden sent us bread, butter and cheese like manna from Heaven. At the end of April came the greatest miracle when the Allies dropped the "food bombs". It was like a fairy tale. When the first bombers circled over Amsterdam, wave of emotion went through the people. Even now, as I write, I have a lump in my throat. Men wept unashamedly and everybody waved at the pilots who were plainly visible.
Finally, after five years' occupation, the days of liberation were thrilling.
On May 5 [1945] we were awakened by a banging at our door. It was "Faithful" with the first liberation copies, which had to be delivered immediately. That morning it actually happened that my husband and I ran with unwashed faces into the street, shouting the news. Copies of the paper were torn out of our hands. At 8 we were allowed to hang out our flags.

Holland was free.
On May 6, 1945, the German army in Holland surrendered.
I'll never forget that sea of flags. Our illegal work was finished and somehow the thought hurt. The work had been so close to me and now it was all over. I managed to drag myself through the next two days, I wanted to see the entry of the Canadians. My husband wallowed in his freedom. On Tuesday we saw the Canadian army enter. It was lovely. We stood looking at it all day on an empty stomch. There wasn't a speck of food in the house any more, but we were thrilled.
The full letter as translated by my mother is posted here. My mother based a book on this and other wartime letters, The Winged Watchman.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Heavenly Fantasy

This short story is by Sister St. George, Olga's former favorite teacher in high school in Montreal.
The pdf is mislabeled as being by HvS, but it does seem to have been written for her.
Heavenly Fantasy by Sr. St. George

Art as an Investment - HvS

This ms. was I believe published by the Canadian Banker in 1961 or thereabouts. HvS argues that art provides daily pleasure in addition to having a market value. She starts her article with the basic question - "What is important to us?" If one's only interest is in selling at a higher price, then art may not be the best investment. But if the art gives joy, then there is a dual return on the investment.

Postscript November 25, 2016

The article was published in the Winter 1960 edition of The Canadian Banker,

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Vincent van Gogh would have been 155 today, March 30

Vincent van Gogh would be 155 years old today. Click here for an art gallery of his work. His life began in Zundert, the Netherlands, on March 30, 1853. There are some interesting van Stockum connections. Vincent's brother Theo worked as a young man for the van Stockum booksellers on the central square of the Hague (den Haag) in Holland. A van Stockum and a van Gogh were related by marriage. I once found the conenction in the van Stockum edition of the Nederlands Patriciaat.

Theo was very important to Vincent in many ways. Theo became an art dealer, and Vincent gave him all his canvases. Theo promoted his brother's art and for many years supplied Vincent with a monthly income. Vincent wrote hundreds of published letters to Theo. "How much sadness there is," Vincent wrote once. "The right thing is to work."

Vincent died disillusioned. He wrote to Theo that "I feel a failure" not long before he died by his own hand in July 1890, at 37. Ironically, Theo was then actually beginning to have success in selling Vincent's paintings.

Vincent's interests wavered between art and religion. At 20 he went to London to work for an art dealer. Then he studied in Brussels to be an evangelist. He evangelized to coal miners in the southwest of Belgium, but worried his supervisors when he decided that it was God's wish that he should give everything he owned away. His mission superiors decided he was nuts and asked him to leave.

So Vincent turned to art, teaching himself from art books. He decided to paint ordinary workers and worked energetically at this from 1880 to 1890. He chose to live in Arles, in the south of France so that he could "look at nature" under a "brighter sky." In Arles he developed his famous painting style, exaggerating images of flora and landscapes with large brush strokes and shocking colors. He wanted his mood to show, and to keep his mood he had to paint quickly. So he would squeeze oil paint right onto the canvas.

Eventually, near the end, Vincent moved to a town north of Paris, painting away as insanity closed in on him. I have heard speculation that in his painting he would put brushes in his mouth and the lead (or whatever) in the paint poisoned him.

It is well known that he cut off a piece of his own ear. He was put in an insane asylum at St. Rémy, where he produced (in 1889) one of his masterpieces, Starry Night. He left the asylum in the spring of 1890 and killed himself in July.